


this is the dead land

by madbloodstirring



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, bucky is not an automatron, even if he likes to pretend otherwise, the usual traumatized winter soldier warnings apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:59:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6875272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madbloodstirring/pseuds/madbloodstirring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky copes post-Winter Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is the dead land

**Author's Note:**

> As of Civil War, this is an AU. Because 2 years is far too long, so I'm going back to post-CA: the Winter Soldier. 
> 
> Title, and quotes, from T.S. Eliot's 'The Hollow Men.' I'll add warnings as they crop up, but I'm not completely sure where this fic is going yet. I just wanted to write Bucky.

\-----

_Those who have crossed_  
_With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom_  
_Remember us—if at all—not as lost_  
_Violent souls, but only_  
_As the hollow men_  
_The stuffed men._  


\-----

 

The dog is back. It picks its way hesitantly over the trash on the floor and, trembling, stretches its nose out almost to touch the Asset’s hunched form.

Yesterday it found most of a protein bar but the Asset only had one - one chalky bar he could not eat - a gift from Alexander Pierce. Today it is out of luck. There is no food here. He watches the dog with one glittering eye as it whuffs and whines so quietly it’s as if it doesn’t want to be heard at all. It is the first living being to get near him for an indeterminate amount of time. 

There are safehouses he could go to. The Asset does not know how he knows this. He thinks, without any conscious knowledge of how the addresses got in his head, _1708 North Gate Street - 224 Red Church Road - Richmond, Knoxville, Miami, New York -_

He was supposed to report. He has failed his mission. He is malfunctioning. But he doesn’t move. 

 

\-----

 

Assessment. Operational. He has three broken ribs, a fractured ulna, indeterminate trauma to his left knee and a possible concussion. It is difficult to judge this last point. His vision is swimming; he has lost time. There is only the mission to anchor him, and it beats in him with urgency: _target alive, alive, alive._

 

\-----

 

He has not gotten far enough away from the scene. Day and night he hears helicopters, car horns, and sirens. He has almost nothing in his head to consult, but he remembers this: pulling the man on the bridge’s body from the deep filthy waters. Captain Steve Rogers. His target, unconscious. He knelt on the loamy soil of the Potomac and looked him over, cataloging the hurts. He could have placed his knife just there, in the tender wet crook of throat. He could have put it behind the soft ear and thrust. He could have crushed the ribs with his metal hand and closed it around the heart. _Target eliminated. Mission successful._ But something intangible would have been lost from the world. 

He didn’t do any of those things. Instead he watched for several beats, marking the rise and fall of breath. _You know me. Bucky, you’ve known me your whole life._

He flees to a warehouse he doesn’t recall consciously choosing, but it is a good place - defensible - long-abandoned, in a bad neighborhood, dark and hidden. No cameras. He crouches in the corner in a nest of dirty newspaper and breaths wetly, raspingly, eyes darting over the floor. His bones knit back together. The lacerations heal. His hair dries in blood and river-knotted tendrils, lank over his face like a veil. His hands move constantly over his weapons, the few that he has left - all knives, strapped to his body so that they weren’t lost. 

For a while he just waits. The Asset is blank. The Asset is compliant. The Asset is blocking out a seething mass of pain and confusion. Someone will come - someone will flush him out. He will be given orders or forced to maintain his position. Either way, something will happen. His lack of direction can be solved with violence or oblivion, honed into sharp-edged focus or taken away at the staccato of a rightfully given order. 

But no one comes. He is left alone with the rising fire in his head. _Then finish it. 'Cause I'm with you 'til the end of the line._

\-----

 

The Asset knows how to deal with pain. Pain is constant and endurable. Throughout everything he’s experienced, he continues to exist, and that in itself is reason to endure. “This won’t be the end,” he whispers. “This won’t be the end.” But really, wouldn’t the end be a comfort? He shakes and he shakes and he tries not to think of the chair. He doesn’t understand what’s happening inside his mind, but he knows that he is not supposed to be feeling any of this. If his handlers find out, they will wipe him. They will punish him for his lack of obedience. 

The stray has come back every night to sleep beside him. He hasn’t given it anything, not since the protein bar, and that wasn’t intentional. He gives it nothing yet the dog still returns, seeking even the smallest semblance of warmth. 

He can relate. That’s the disgusting part, isn’t it.

 


End file.
